But another thought importuned him. He had left
Turin without news of Vivaldi or Fulvia, and without having done
anything to conjure the peril to which his rashness had exposed them.
More than once he had been about to reveal his trouble to Alfieri; but
shame restrained him when he remembered that it was Alfieri who had
vouched for his discretion. After his conversation with Trescorre he had
tried to find some way of sending a word of warning to Vivaldi; but he
had no messenger whom he could trust; and would not Vivaldi justly
resent a warning from such a source? He felt himself the prisoner of his
own folly, and as he rode along the wet country roads an invisible
gaoler seemed to spur beside him.
The clouds lifted at noon; and leaving the plain he mounted into a world
sparkling with sunshine and quivering with new-fed streams. The first
breath of mountain-air lifted the mist from his spirit, and he began to
feel himself a boy again as he entered the high gorges in the cold light
after sunset. It was about the full of the moon, and in his impatience
to reach Donnaz he resolved to push on after nightfall. The forest was
still thinly-leaved, and the rustle of wind in the branches and the
noise of the torrents recalled his first approach to the castle, in the
wild winter twilight. The way lay in darkness till the moon rose, and
once or twice he took a wrong turn and found himself engaged in some
overgrown woodland track; but he soon regained the high-road, and his
servant, a young fellow of indomitable cheerfulness, took the edge off
their solitude by frequent snatches of song.
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